DESPITE THE FACT that Billie had lived in Thornridge for some time, the amount of people she knew intimately was shockingly low. She needed to make a concerted effort to be elsewhere, other than hanging around the hotel bar of the Inn. And yet. Not today. She was there now, sipping down a vodka martini, Ketel One, up, with a twist, and she turned to the person next to her. “You know,” she said, “you can donate blood at a bank every eight weeks, but if it’s just a little bit, you can do it way more frequently. Interesting, right? I’ve got it down to a science. Either a full taste once a week, or a few small tastes every other week. That way, I can basically... give what I want, and not die.” Billie flashed a smile as though it was the most normal conversation in the world, as though listing off the ingredients to pasta instead of the morbid subject it was.